Remote Control

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  Will he get the hint?

  Harry's eyes have a strange glimmer in them. "I'm working on it, Bea. Believe me."

  She almost does. Almost.

  "I'll believe it when I see it," she says sadly.

  * * *

  Harry tiptoes into the living room the following morning and heads for the closet, hoping and praying that he hasn't dreamt it all, that there really are cameras and a flat-screen TV stashed behind the boxes. He flicks a look over his shoulder. Beatrice is in the shower, but he can't be too careful.

  He opens the door and grunts as he shifts the top three boxes.

  There! Right behind them is the top of the flat-screen.

  He lets out a whoop. "Ho-ly shee-it." He covers his mouth, but not before a giggle escapes.

  Returning the boxes to their original positions, he quickly shuts the door. As soon as Beatrice leaves for work, he'll move them to the basement.

  Harry checks his clipboard to see what appointments he has booked. He's too keyed up to even think of going to work. Last thing he wants to do is wedge himself under some old lady's sink and unclog a drainpipe that she's clogged up by washing her rapidly thinning hair and her five dogs and six cats. Not to mention, she's probably hawked in it every morning to clear up a phlegmy throat.

  What he really wants to do is check to see what's on TV.

  "Let's see what's on the tube," he says, settling in his chair.

  He picks up the remote and turns on the television, wishing it was the brand new one sitting in the back of the closet. He scrolls through the channels until he comes to the guide. There's a game show on in a few hours.

  "That won't do," he realizes. "I'd just show up. They wouldn't just let me play."

  The cursor hovers over Channel 78. Oprah will be on later in the day.

  Harry chuckles. "Like to see Oprah's face if I just popped up on that couch beside her."

  No, the queen of daytime TV will have to wait. Maybe once he's rich and famous she'll invite him to be a guest on her show. Bea too. That would sure score brownie points with her.

  He starts channel surfing. Maybe something exciting will catch his eye.

  And something does.

  * * *

  Global TV flashes a "BREAKING NEWS" banner.

  "Sometime early this morning," news anchor Bill Humphrey says, "the new Best Buy store located in southeast Edmonton was broken into and robbed. We have Desiree Montgomery standing by."

  The camera cuts to an attractive young woman with sleek blond hair. She's standing inside the store, right about the place where Harry had 'landed'.

  "What can you tell us, Desiree?" Bill asks.

  "Well, police don't have much to go on at this time, Bill. As you can see behind me, officers are still dusting for fingerprints. However, they don't think they'll find anything they can distinguish from the thousands of people who have walked through these doors since the store opened three days ago."

  "Do they know how the thief broke in?"

  "That's the strange thing. Police have ruled out entry by either the front or back door. Outdoor security cameras show no movement in front of either. Right now they're looking into the possibility that the thief waited inside the store until it closed, then somehow made it past security with the goods in hand when the store opened."

  "I understand an interior security camera caught the man on tape," Bill says.

  The screen splits, showing Desiree on one side and a black and white video on the other.

  Desiree smiles but her tone is serious. "There is some static just before we see the man. And just before he disappears. Because he wore a hood, the store's security camera was unable to fully capture his face, but authorities tell me they're analyzing the tape as we speak. For now, the identity of the Best Buy Bandit remains unknown."

  And there it is―Harry's new superhero name.

  The Best Buy Bandit.

  Harry likes it. He can just picture future headlines: Best Buy Bandit Strikes Again!

  "It's definitely a mysterious case," Bill says, the camera focusing in on his perfect smile. "Thank you, Desiree. The Best Buy Bandit is described as a heavyset male, approximately four hundred pounds."

  Harry is pissed. The camera has added a hefty forty pounds, instead of the ten everyone talks about.

  "No one knows how he broke in," Bill continues. "Or how he got out."

  But Harry knows. And he isn't telling a soul.

  * * *

  Harry runs into a roadblock. Figuratively, that is.

  He has a basement full of stolen loot, but no pawn shop will touch it. He hadn't though of that. With the fame of the Best Buy Bandit creating a wave of excitement across Edmonton, all pawn shops are on high alert, and Harry can't risk getting caught.

  "Crap!" he mutters the following afternoon as he stares at the flat-screen TV.

  Then he has an idea.

  He brings the flat-screen TV upstairs, hooks it up and places the old TV on the passenger seat of his van. He'll take whatever he can get for that one. When Beatrice comes home after work, he has a lie all ready and waiting. He'll tell her he got an advance for a major contract today, and as a treat, he bought them a new TV.

  "It'll be far more believable than winning a lottery," he says to his reflection in the flat-screen. "Bea will be so proud."

  He grabs the shiny new remote control and is just settling into his recliner when it hits him. He can't get rid of the old TV. It's his money-making lifeline. His 'golden goose'.

  "What the hell was I thinking?"

  He gives the flat-screen a look filled with regret and yearning.

  Twenty minutes later, the TVs are switched again, and all looks as it had.

  "Maybe I can sell the flat-screen on Kijiji," he mutters.

  But Harry's not stupid. The police will be monitoring Kijiji and the Bargain Finder.

  He thinks of all the stolen stash hidden in his basement.

  Useless. It's all useless.

  The only thing he can do is wait until he takes a trip out of town.

  So much for feeling lucky. Now Harry feels like he was duped.

  "There's got to be a better way to do this. What I need is cold, hard cash. And lots of it."

  But where does one find that on TV?

  He flips open the TV guide and scours the listings.

  "Money, money, money, I got love in my tummy," he sings.

  Harry's forgotten the Sunday School lesson his mother had drilled into him when he was seven.

  The love of money is the root of all evil.

  All evil aside, Harry's mouth stretches into a slow smile when he reads tomorrow's schedule.

  "Yee-ha," he says. "Thank God for repeats. I've struck gold."

  * * *

  Bea wakes up to a strange sound. It's morning and something is whistling.

  Did Harry forget to unplug the kettle?

  She clambers out of bed, throws a housecoat over her cotton nightgown and wanders into the bathroom. Harry is in the shower―whistling a merry tune.

  "Harry?"

  "I'll be out in a minute, Bea."

  She studies him through the glass doors. The frosted glass distorts his body and for a moment, she thinks he's grown two heads. But no, he's brought a mirror into the shower.

  "Are you shaving?" she asks in complete disbelief.

  Harry rarely shaves. Heck, he is rarely up this early in the morning.

  "Yes, I have a busy day ahead of me," he says. Then he goes back to his whistling.

  Now Bea is ticked off. She has forty minutes to get ready for work.

  "I need the shower, Harry."

  "I'm almost done."

  As she's brushing her teeth, Harry finishes up. He looks extremely happy as he steps out of the shower.

  "What's going on?" she asks.

  "I have a new work project today. One that should pay pretty good."

  Bea turns away and rolls her eyes. "Really."

  Harry tries to secure a towel around hi
s waist but even the huge bath sheets she bought are too small. "You have your scrapbook class tonight, don't you?"

  She studies him. "Why?"

  Harry shrugs. "Just wondering. I'll be working late tonight."

  Bea almost laughs. "Work? You? I'll believe it when I see it."

  "Don't you need to have a shower?" Harry snaps before heading into the bedroom.

  As she stands motionless in the bathroom, Bea's suspicion grows. Something isn't right with Harry. She knows it. All her years working with conniving students taught her one thing―how to spot a liar.

  "Just what are you up to, Harold Fielding?"

  * * *

  "Fifteen minutes until I'm rich," Harry murmurs.

  He's had a busy day unclogging Mr. McKinley's bathtub drain for the fifth time in the last month, then cleaning the drains over at the old folk's home, and finally fixing a broken water pipe in a new customer's basement.

  Now he's home, grinning and pacing like a child eager for his first visit to the zoo.

  He can't wait to wipe that irritating smirk off Bea's face. In fact, maybe he'll do more than that. Maybe he'll get rid of her once and for all. He could poison her. Or drown her in the bathtub.

  "A rich man like I'll be deserves a better wife." He thinks of Donald Trump. "I'll get me a younger wife, one that doesn't nag me to death…one that looks like a model. Then I'll live in the lap of luxury."

  Oh, yes, Harry can see it now. A new home―a mansion! A yacht or two. Trips to Paris, Greece, France…wherever he wants to go.

  "And all the money I can hope for."

  The clock ticks and he watches the minute hand. "Five more minutes."

  "Harry?"

  His body jerks toward the front door. "I thought you'd left, Bea."

  "I had to put a load of laundry on," she said, shifting a flowered handbag to her shoulder. "Clothes don't wash themselves, you know."

  He ignores the not-so-subtle dig. "I'm heading out in a few minutes."

  From a window, he watches Bea walk down the sidewalk. He feels no sense of remorse that only minutes ago he was plotting her untimely demise. He loved Bea. Once. But things change. He's changed.

  He puffs out his chest. "You'll be sorry you didn't have more faith in me."

  The clock ticks to the final minute.

  Harry smiles. Then he wobbles across the room, picks up the remote control and turns on the TV.

  "It's time."

  He checks the TV guide and switches to Channel 20. There's a commercial for Canadian Idol on, but he knows that won't make him rich. So he waits, his eyes lighting up at the thought of what he was about to do.

  Finally, the hour-long show begins, a documentary that was filmed last year.

  The host of the show comes onto the screen. He's a well-dressed man in his forties. He touches the security bars that separate him from a fortune, and turns a smile toward the viewing audience.

  Harry gives him a nod. "Show me the money!"

  "Welcome," the host says, "to Fort Knox, home of the United States Bullion Depository."

  * * *

  "The US stores a large amount of gold reserves here," the host says. "Currently there is close to 150 million ounces in this fortified vault. And today you are going to take a virtual trip inside."

  Harry stands still, transfixed by the realization that within minutes, he'd become the richest man alive. If he were a cartoon figure, we'd see dollar signs rolling up into his eyes. Ca-ching!

  "This vault is constructed of granite, steel and concrete," the host continues. "The blast-proof door alone weighs more than 20 tons. The high tech security system that is in place makes it impossible for anyone to get inside the vault."

  At that, Harry laughs. "We'll see about that, now won't we?"

  While the host launches into a boring history of Fort Knox, Harry rushes into the kitchen.

  "This oughta do it," he says, grabbing two garbage bags.

  He scurries back to the living room as fast as his rotund body allows. Wheezing, he gets there just in time to watch the vault door open, exposing thousands of gold mint bars stacked from floor to ceiling.

  "Oh…my…God."

  Nearly passing out, Harry grabs the back of the armchair for support.

  "Only some of the gold is visible," the host says. "One must go through separate cells to view the full amount of gold stored here."

  "I think what I see right now will do just fine." Harry reaches for the remote control.

  Commercial break.

  "Damn it!"

  He stands in front of the TV, two garbage bags in one hand and the remote in the other. Waiting.

  Another ad.

  This time for feminine products―just what Harry needs.

  "Oh, goody. A commercial for Always with wings." His eyes narrow. "Maybe Bea will buy some and fly away."

  The host finally returns. He flashes his too-perfect smile at the camera, making Harry cringe. He's seen enough episodes of Extreme Make-Over to know veneers when he sees them.

  "Now let's go see some gold," the man says.

  Harry nods. "Yes, let's."

  He knows that if he tries now, he'll be stuck outside a locked vault door. He needs a shot of the inside of the vault. That's when he'll make his move.

  The host steps into the vault and the camera crew follow him inside.

  Harry wastes no time. He switches channels, touches the TV, makes his wish, then switches back.

  Poof! Harry vanishes, leaving behind an empty house.

  Only it's not as empty as he thinks.

  * * *

  "Where'd you go, Harry?" Bea whispers from her hiding place.

  She rubs her eyes and stares in shock at the place where her husband had been standing mere seconds earlier. Harry had vanished before her eyes.

  "I must be dreaming," she says, stunned.

  She pinches herself. It hurts.

  This is no dream, Beatrice Fielding. Maybe you never should have come back.

  But she has.

  Sensing that something was going on with Harry, Bea had decided to forgo an evening of scrapbooking with her friends. She had crept into the house through the back door and stood around the corner near the front door, peeking out every now and then to watch Harry's every move.

  But what I saw is impossible.

  Nothing makes sense.

  Why did you get up early, Harry? What on earth were you doing watching TV when you said you had a big project?

  Bea frowns. "And how did you disappear like that?"

  She is tempted to search the living room for clues, but something makes her stay where she is.

  Fear.

  Bea is terrified of what she's seen, what she doesn't understand.

  "How can you do this…thing, disappear like that? It's not normal. You've changed, Harry."

  Peering around the corner again, she studies the spot by the TV. She thinks about Harry's laziness, his lies and his insulting treatment of her. She'd married him, 'for better or worse'.

  "This is definitely the 'worse' part."

  She pictures him standing by the TV. She couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but one second he was there in his rolls of flesh, the next he was gone. All three hundred and sixty pounds of him.

  Bea's hands are shaking, so she brings them to her chest and clasps them hard against her, all the while staring at her wedding ring. The simple gold band no longer represents the promise of love and happiness. It means entrapment, pure and simple. It's a noose tightening around her throat until she can no longer breathe.

  Oh God! I wish I could escape this life. I'd do anything to be free. Anything!

  By now, Bea should know to be more careful with her wishes.

  * * *

  Harry can't believe his good fortune. His luck has finally changed. He's standing in the main vault with enough gold around him to pave the city streets of Edmonton. And it's all his. At least, as much as he can carry.

  He opens up one of the garbage b
ags. "I'll fill these, then be on my way."

  The first gold bar he reaches for makes him pause. He strokes the cool, smooth surface with his fingertips, all the while imagining a suit made with gold threads. Grinning, he picks it up. It's a bit heavier than he expected, but he manages to get it into the bag. He reaches for another.

  By the time he has seven bars in the bag, he realizes his mistake.

  "I'll never be able to carry a full bag. Besides, it'll rip before I get it off the ground."

  It seems that stealing gold from Fort Knox is going to be more difficult than he has anticipated.

  He removes two bars from the bag. Then he checks his watch. "Bea won't be home for at least two hours. That'll give me plenty of time to make a few trips, a few gold bars at a time."

  He tests the bag, lifting it a few inches off the ground. "Home, RC."

  With a press of the memory button he finds himself back in his living room. "I did it!"

  He tries to do a victory dance, but the heavy bag knocks him off balance and he stumbles into the coffee table and bangs his knee. Hobbling toward his recliner, he places the garbage bag with its golden treasure on the seat. "By the time I'm done, I'll have this room filled with gold."

  He moves back to the TV and prepares for round two. As he switches channels, an angry voice behind him says, "What do you think you're doing?"

  But Harry's already gone.

  He's now standing in the centre of the main vault. It takes him a few minutes to calm his racing heart, and a bit longer before he realizes something is dreadfully wrong. Something more than having Bea walk in just as he vanishes into thin air.

  Alarms are blaring.

  "The alarm must be weight sensitive. I must have set it off when I took the gold."

  But that's not his only problem. Harry is missing a very valuable object.

  He stares at his empty hands.

  "Oh shit, I dropped the remote."

  * * *

  Bea holds the precious remote control. At first, she doesn't comprehend its importance. All she knows is that Harry dropped it a split second before he disappeared again.

  She steps away from the TV, but something makes her look back over her shoulder. "Harry?"